The birds seem blackwith an electric coatof blue, the wind nowbleeds my script ontothe page when I runafter a loose pamphletmoving across pineneedles, the trunks area city and the birdswear clouds trailingabove, single fixationthe trees I listen to

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The diligence of these lines(though I thought towrite “lies,” almost)these mountains to thesouth wearing whitepuffs in the earlymorning, who by noonwore a dark hoodfrom which the linesof rain could be glimpseddrawn into the earthor pulling rain intothe clouds, forward& backward goes theloop, as the closingguitar on “Dominoes”makes beautiful senseboth ways at once

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This is practice insociology, the passingfrom day to minutes,squalor and ignorancebecause of historicaland material conditionsa dry landscape whosereddish clay is stuffedwith rocks and settledarchipelagos of lava